


dear saint, let lips do what hands do

by maranhig



Category: Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig/pseuds/maranhig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you cup the side of his neck, test the steady pulse, and there’s something primal about that, the feel of his life in your hand. / in which riddick and vaako are not in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dear saint, let lips do what hands do

**Author's Note:**

> written long _long_ before i knew things would turn out the way they did in the new installment, and it’s so terribly dumb, yeah, sue me. just put this up for the sake of adding more of this fun pairing (which the sequel did nothing to expand on, hjfc talk about lazy writing).  
>  title is bill shakespeare's. movie also not mine. duh.  
> this is all from vaako’s point of view.

You awaken with difficulty, smacking your dry lips and grimacing at the dead dog taste in your mouth. You become aware of your nakedness under the sheets, your uncharacteristic reluctance to leave your chambers and bother with facing the day. The soft grunt and brushing puff of warm air evokes last night’s events to memory, and you half-smile, fully open your eyes.

He still sleeps. Somehow in the night you’ve arranged your bodies so you’re bent toward each other, gravitating together like a pair of quotes. His hand is curled in a fist between you while the other grasps the knife you know he keeps tucked under his pillow. The fragile shields of his eyelids flicker with dreams, his pursed mouth moving ever so slightly. A frown creases his face, still so on guard and tense even when unconscious. Lord Marshal he may be, yet he reminds you of a restless child.

You reach out, ever so wary of disturbing him, and smooth the wrinkle between his eyebrows with your fingertips. You’re pleased that they stay unmarred, and continue tracing his temple, the shell of his ear, his jaw. You cup the side of his neck, test the steady pulse, and there’s something primal about that, the feel of his life in your hand.

He lets out another sigh, and your gaze snaps back up just as he comes to, his eyes opening like lamps revealed to bathe everything in an ethereal glow.

“Nice wakeup call,” he says, his voice low and rough with sleep, one you feel vibrating on your palm as well as in your ears. A smirk is pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you send a wry smile back.

You sweep your thumb over his throat, and if he presses a little more into your touch you don’t take note of this aloud. “I thought my lord was having bad dreams.”

“Every time you call me that I can’t help but feel like you may as well be saying ‘asshole’,” he murmurs.

Just as you’re about to remark something snide in return, he reaches one arm around your waist and half-rolls you so you’re on top of him. Your hands land with a whump at the sides of his head, bracing yourself instinctively to prevent your foreheads from bashing together. You look down on him as he looks up, that fish hooked grin growing in size.

You’re rather surprised. You’re used to him being in control. In matters of the Necromonger race you’re allowed to speak out of turn for everyone’s sake. In bed you let him have his way, but not without a fight, not without ensuring your pleasure as well as his own. You wonder, quite absurdly, if this is a test.

As if he’s divined your thoughts, he chuckles, traces the grooves your biceps create under your skin. “C’mon, big guy, you forgotten how it is to take charge now that you’re my little bitch?”

You puff up in indignation. “I wouldn’t use such an intense term, my lord.” You grasp his wrists and bear down on him, aligning your chest and hips with his, your legs jackknifed against his ribs. He huffs, lets out a throaty laugh.

“All bark and no bite, _Siberius_ ,” he taunts, voice scraping up your spine more than a caress ever could.

You lean back a bit and just look at him, drink in the sight. He’s twisting up carefully in your grip, but not trying all that much to get away. You’re both growing hard from these ministrations, and you bend down, set your mouth on the place where his jaw meets his throat.

He makes a wild choked noise upon the contact, bucking up and nearly throwing you off the bed, but you bear down on him with your whole body, and you know there will be bruises like manacles tomorrow from where you’re gripping his wrists. 

When you’re finally satisfied with your work, you sit back up again. He glares at you, a red mark blossoming just under his ear, but his heaving chest and cocked-open, obscenely pouting mouth destroys the authoritative effect.

“You gonna keep cutting off my circulation or are you actually gonna do something?”

You smirk at the impatience in his tone. “As my lord commands,” you murmur, and kiss him hard enough that it borders on violence, but then again, everything you do to each other always does.

He kisses the way he fights: fierce, relentless, overwhelming. He curls his tongue around yours, kitten-licks at the roof of your mouth. You bite at his upper lip in retaliation, and when he grinds up into you, you match him move for move.

He groans low at that, as if to say _finally_ , and you keep rocking against each other, a primal dance with the rustle of sheets and your stuttering hearts as music, a beautiful thing.

It’s over too soon, the quivery spark of release landing like a grenade between your thighs. But the way he sprawls out so comfortable and unguarded afterwards, the lazy half-smile he shoots you as you sigh and get up to stretch your limbs, more than makes up for it. It opens up something in you, a warmth you dare not name but know he feels as well.

“Not that I’d be against a few more tumbles in bed, but we have an empire to run,” you say aloud.

You’ve only just pulled on your trousers when he steps up behind you and, before you can protest, loops his arms around your waist. He hovers over the purification mark on your neck, where it would be so easy for him to rip your jugular in seconds, if he really put his mind to it. But he just touches his lips to it, hinting with teeth and tongue.

You smirk at him in the mirror before you. “My collar will still cover it up, you know.”

He smirks right back, begins picking up his clothes as he replies, “It’s not really a public display so much as a personal reminder.”

Only when he finally leaves do you press on the bruise reddening the pale scar, and smile.


End file.
